Sniffles & Snuffles

Aw look, look at that beautiful new baby in your arms. Isn’t it cute, it’s perfect in every way. Fresh as a daisy and twice as cute. Savour that. Enjoy your maternity leave too, those are the golden days. Have you found a nursery yet? Somewhere fantastic for your perfect, unspoilt child to spend its days learning, playing, creating, getting messy and having fun. Have you?

What no one tells you, ok they may tell you, but you’ll fail to grasp the horror of it fully until it happens. What no one tells you is that your perfect baby will go to nursery and bring you back little gifts. How sweet. How generous. Not so.

The minute your bundle of joy starts mixing with other children, properly mixing, not just clapping hands in a circle at baby singing class, but full on 8 hours a day, they become industrial germ breeding machines. Their first six months at nursery will be spent with a runny nose, runny bum, the vomits and anything else that passes through. Our nursery is currently advising that D&V, Chicken Pox, Slapped Cheek and head lice are stalking the corridors and one child has been hospitalised with suspected viral meningitis, so we’ve all had alerts about that. It’s non-stop. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

As for me, I have thalessaemia which can mean I’m more susceptible to picking up bugs. But for those first six months after the bliss of maternity leave I was intolerably ill. Hacking coughs, stomach bugs, cold after cold after cold and the final straw, tonsillitis. I hardly slept those first six months.

It did get better, he’s built up a small amount of immunity now and he’s old enough to tell me how he feels and what hurts. This week he’s got a cough, cold and two burst eardrums. He’s got glue ear so we’re used to it, but the leakage from the bursts is gross. I won’t dwell but it’s gross.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the very bones of that boy and each time he gets ill I get the bonus of extra snuggles and cuddles. To be fair it’s not just germs he brings back, he toddles in clutching his finest works of art, biscuits and cakes he’s made and lovely little gifts like a flower he’s picked just for me. Those are the best gifts, and for that we’ll happily put up with all the germs he can throw at us and tell ourselves he’s busy building some immunity for when he goes to big school.

So as your perfect baby sleeps in your arms and you start to prepare to return to work, make sure your medicine cabinet is well stocked, bulk buy tissues, get your vitamins down you, eat your greens and prepare for germ warfare. You’re welcome.

Stupid

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I’ve been stupid. This is nothing new for me I admit, but this time I’ve really messed up. I’ve got issues like anyone and sometimes, just sometimes I lean on friends too hard. They’re not trained professionals. They don’t know how to cope with me, my moods, my anxieties, my weirdness. I say and do things that are sometimes just wrong or hurtful or inappropriate. I don’t mean to.

photo (20) (600x450) — *Some* of my meds

I seem to have got myself into fortnightly cycles of downers, I’m fine for 13 days and then, boom, my mood goes through the floor and I act up, act down, act weird, do stupid things, say stupid things. This is really not cool. This is really not me. This is really not how I want to be.

As I write this I’m crying. On the verge of losing another friend over this. I’ve got to take ownership and control of my moods, my life. This just cannot continue.

I need a strategy. Previously my strategy was to drink massively and to excess, it was my first thought this morning but I’ve not touched a drop. That’s progress. My second thought was self harm, I’ve not cut or burnt today. Progress. I am getting somewhere. I need a non-destructive way to deal with stuff. Until I find that I’m stuck with dark, harmful thoughts in my head but not wanting to fall back on my old ways of dealing with them.

So, to friends old and new, friends I’ve lost and are losing. I’m sorry. I won’t use my mental health as an excuse for poor behaviour. Pull me up on it, challenge me, don’t let it float by. But love me and hold me when I need to be loved and held. It’s a scary old rollercoaster in my head right now. I know I am getting better but it won’t happen overnight. Bear with me, please, and I’m sorry. I really am.

Stubbing Out My Dirty Habit – Stoptober

photo (16) (600x481)

I smoked at uni, everyone did. Everyone smoked their heads off and drank too much. I had a ruddy fantastic time and I loved smoking, really loved it. We all left uni, found jobs, partners, whole new lives. Gradually everyone in my circle stopped smoking. I gave up in 2004. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. I’ve missed it ever since but never really regretted giving up.

I’ve had a load of problems this year, two surgeries, very prolonged rehab and now anxiety and depression have taken a grip of me. I started hanging out with a group of new people who smoked, after a couple of drunken nights cadging their fags I went and bought a packet. And another packet and another packet and so on, you get the picture. I’ve now smoked since July this year. I do love it, I enjoy every drag, but I know the party has to end soon. Ideally it has to end now.

With this in mind I was really pleased to be invited to document my Stoptober journey with the help of Boots. I’ve got an appointment with an advisor who will talk me through my options and I’ll get to try a range of products that will help and support me in my mission to stub out my dirty habit for good.

Please do follow my journey, I’ll be writing a weekly update on my progress throughout Stoptober. If you want to join me you can find a range of tools and guidance on how to quit smoking during Stoptober and beyond here.

Thanks for reading.

Learning to live with and accept my scars

I am covered in scars. Sign of a life well lived or recklessly lived I don’t know. I only really regret one scar and I’m working on learning to live with and accept the rest. What is the story behind my scars and what do I really think of them?

I’ve got a number of scars on my wrist from when a glass panel fell out of a door when I was 6. I was lucky not to be cut to ribbons, but the scars are bad and I clearly remember seeing the white of the bone. For the record, bones are very white.

I have a cesarean section scar which is a reminder of my boy. I don’t regret that one bit. At the time, it was the only way for him to get out as he was stuck and we were both in trouble.

I have my back surgery scars. Twice this year I’ve been sliced and diced, so the scar is a very ugly one but hopefully will fade in time. A necessary scar because without it I’d likely be in agony and paralysed. I don’t regret that.

I have had many and various skin conditions so my legs are scarred. To figure out what was wrong I had a biopsy, so I’ve got that scar too which looks like a strange dimple in my calf, as well as marks from the skin conditions which are horrible.

My feet are in a shocking state. Years of secret self harming and picking at the scars have taken their toll. Look at the soles of my feet and you’d be shocked.

But the only scar that bothers me is the one on my hand. I cut it with the blade of some scissors, running the blade repeatedly over my flesh until it opened up. I wanted a visible reminder of my pain. Of that moment in my life which was both beautiful and terrifying. I cut it in June and the scar is still obvious and unlikely to ever really go away. I want it to fade because of what it represents but equally I want it to stay forever as a reminder.

Learning to live with My Scars — Self harm cigarette burn & the scissor scar

I look at my scars and I don’t think they’re ugly. I think they’re me. Others might think they’re ugly or disgusting or shocking but they are part of who I am. They are the map of my progress through life.

I’m a Mental Patient too Asda!

In response to Asda and their incredibly tasteless “Mental Patient” fancy dress costume there has been a massive tidal wave of supportive tweets and the hashtag #MentalPatient has started trending.

The hashtag is being used by people like me who have mental health issues. Here is my mental patient costume. Is it scary? Or is it a picture of a “normal” looking woman? Mental health wears many costumes and disguises. We’re not all deranged, unhinged maniacs on the rampage.

I am a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a friend. I am many things to many people. I’m also a mental patient. I have depression, anxiety, PTSD and an eating disorder. I self harm, I’m suicidal, I’m happy, I’m sad. I’m terrible, I’m amazing. I’m not a mad axe murderer. Please do not stigmatise me.